The Magician in the Museum
by FreakFreak
Summary: Doorsteps are very dangerous places to leave orphaned babies... Anyone might pick them up. In this case, a world-reknown forensic anthropologist with a soft heart and a hard head. No pairings yet. Discontinued - accepting offers for adoption.
1. The Baby in Britain

It was _freezing._ Dr. Temperance Brennan pulled her overcoat tighter around herself.

She was on a holiday. Only because Angela _and_ Booth – not to mention Sweets – had pushed her into it. They'd said that recently she'd been working _far_ too hard, and as a young woman in her late twenties she should go somewhere fun and have, well, fun.

So she'd taken a month's sabbatical, and she'd decided to go to England.

There had been an archaeological five-day conference going on in Dublin, and Temperance – or Bones, and she was better-known among her friends – had already been. Then, at Angela's insistence over the phone – who, by the way, didn't know she was actually in an archaeological conference in the first place – she'd decided to visit London.

So far, she'd been in London a week; and, to Angela's phone-expressed delight, she had booked a flight to see Paris for four days – Angela didn't know that between going to the Louvre and perhaps touring the city, Bones had found _another_ conference, this one on kinesiology – before going back to DC. Her plane to Paris left in two days.

Tonight, she'd foolishly had the idea to use the famed London Underground. She'd reached the end of the line, gotten off, and had a coffee. And when she'd looked at the Underground timetable, she'd been rather annoyed at the fact that the last train heading toward London had just left.

It was eleven at night, Halloween, and Temperance was annoyed.

So she'd left the station with the vague idea to find a hotel and waiting until morning, which was when the next train left.

Unfortunately, the outskirts of London were suburban, primarily inhabited by urban neighbourhoods. This meant that there wasn't a hotel in sight. She couldn't call for a cab, seeing as she didn't have the number, and her phone battery had just died on her as she stared at the phone contemplatively.

This was how Dr Temperance Brennan, famous forensic anthropologist and author, found herself wandering the streets of Little Whinging, London, at eleven thirty on Halloween evening.

Bones scowled. What was she supposed to do now? Wandering up to somebody's house and politely asking if they could call a taxi for her wasn't an option – she'd already tried, and the woman who'd answered the door had told her to get lost and stop bothering the neighbours, it was midnight on a frickin' weekday, couldn't she leave them alone? She'd already looked all over the neighbourhood for a police station and hadn't found one. There wasn't a pedestrian in sight.

Bones shivered and buried her hands deeper into her pockets, bowing her head down. Great. Now it was starting to rain, too!

She turned Acorn Street. There was a park at the end, and Bones sighed. It looked like she'd have to spend the night on a bench, or up a tree. She crossed the road and reached for the park gates, only to hiss in dismay. They were padlocked shut.

Well, then. Bones sighed again, and turned on her heel. She'd just have to wander the streets until eight seventeen, which was when the next train left.

Twenty minutes later, she found her eyelids drooping as she walked into Privet Drive. She stopped outside Number Five, and went into the garden. There was a tall beech tree – perhaps not the best tree for climbing into, but certainly the only one in sight – that she scaled in moments. She found a wide branch to rest on and leaned against the trunk, settling down comfortably. One thing she was thankful for was that she didn't wasn't a restless sleeper.

Her eyes began to drift shut, and she would have dozed off; only moments later, her eyes snapped open.

There was a _cat_ sitting on the wall of Number Four.

This was, perhaps, unusual; but Bones had once owned a cat – before it was run over – and she knew cat habits. Cats might sit still. But not as still or as stiffly as this cat was. Cats might have markings. But not markings as perfectly symmetrical as this.

Her anthropologist's mind noted that this cat's bone structure was vaguely...humanoid. For example –

Bones blinked, and rubbed her eyes. Then she grasped an overhead branch and, as silently as she could, swung from the tree, landing in a crouch.

Cats did _not_ pinch the bridges of their nose with their claws!

Bones was now suspicious. Still in a crouch, she moved forwards, right up to the hedge of Number Five's. Which, by the way, was dying out. It was very thin; Bones looked through.

The cat _sighed._

_Well,_ Bones thought to herself. _What was _in_ that coffee?_ Her second thought was: _Booth would be jumping up and down in glee. Temperance Brennan, doing something exciting that doesn't involve murders and bones._

She was distracted from the cat when she heard a set of shoes walking down the road. _Finally! _She crowed internally. _A pedestrian! Someone with a cell phone! _She prepared to straighten up, to ask the person walking by if she could use a cell phone.

She froze when she heard a series of clicks coming from across the road, not unlike those a cigarette lighter, and all the lights in neighbourhood went out.

She frowned. Well, at least the passerby wouldn't have left. She stopped in her tracks when, of all things, she heard the passerby _greet_ the cat.

"Fancy seeing you here, Professor McGonagall."

Bones blinked. _Professor McGonagall? What?_ Maybe the cat was the passerby's. And he'd named it Professor McGonagall. Well, not unreasonable. She'd named her own cat Copernicus. The man could perfectly well name his cat Professor McGonagall, even though she couldn't remember any poet, writer, scientist, philosopher, lawyer or doctor, off the top of her head, who had had that name. She peeked through the gap in the hedge.

The man on the other side of the road was...well, he looked strange, completely incongruous among the neat, ordinary suburb of Privet Drive. In fact, she doubted if anything _like_ this man had ever been seen in Privet Drive.

He was tall. Not as tall as Booth, maybe, but certainly taller than her. He was also thin, and very old, judging by the amazing shade of silver in his hair and beard...which was _long,_ and remarkably well-kept. It was also long enough to tuck into his belt.

Bones blinked. He was wearing what looked like sixteenth-century garments. To her trained eye, they looked quite authentic, and expensive. The long robes – close to a dress, _certainly_ what sixteenth century monks would have worn, except perhaps without what looked like an expensive leather belt with a bright golden buckle. Except perhaps not in such a bright shade of red, and probably not patterned with yellow figures – he wore under a purple cloak, which swept the ground. He also wore high-heeled, silver-buckled boots.

His eyes were a bright, electric blue, light and sparkling behind half-moon spectacles and his nose was very long and crooked. Bones's sharp eyes caught that the nose had been broken three times; one, nearest to the tip, probably sustained in childhood, and the other two breaks, closer to the bridge, were probably sustained both at the same time, in early adulthood. Without closer inspection, she wouldn't be able to tell, though.

Well, judging by the fact that this man had named the cat Professor McGonagall, and that his body structure suggested he was at least in his nineties – although, Bones remarked, he was remarkably spry for his age – then perhaps he was senile.

His odd taste in clothing certainly seemed to support that theory.

Bones looked back at the cat. And bit back a yelp.

Where a vaguely humanoid tabby cat had sat all too stiffly before, now stood a woman. She wore identical garments as the man, but in darker, more sedate colours.

A corner of her mind was telling her that, simply, this _could not be true._ The woman had to have been there before, and maybe Bones had simply not seen her.

However, the larger part of her brain was telling her that, logically, the woman-cat was exactly that: a cat that turned into a woman. Or perhaps a woman that turned into a cat. Whatever the case, it was a logical explanation: fantastic, perhaps, but certainly logical.

She shifted nervously as she listened to their conversation.

As she listened to their words, her brow began to furrow. As she watched, silent, awed, a man – a giant – came on a _flying motorbike,_ of all things. He handed the man – Dumbledore – a bundle of deep blue blankets. She listened, in growing horror, as Dumbledore proclaimed this _baby_ the saviour of the world.

The she watched, in fascination and disquiet, as Dumbledore, the woman, and the giant-man called Hagrid, left the baby on the doorstep of Number Four, Privet Drive.

Then the Hagrid left, the woman-cat turned back into a cat and slunk away, and Dumbledore stared at the sleeping child on the doorstep. Then, he murmured something quietly to the child, who cooed in its sleep, and left, walking down the street. Once he turned the corner into Daisy Drive, all the lights in the street flared back to life.

Brennan got to her feet. Before she fully understood what she was doing, she was stumbling forward, across the street and to the sleeping child.

It was only a _child;_ a _baby,_ and yet these people had left it here, with only a letter written in green ink and a blanket. Brennan sat on the steps next to the child, biting her lip. She made a decision.

She'd take the baby, and leave him at the nearest police station, when she found one. She carefully scooped him up in her arms, reassured when the baby didn't even move in its sleep. Which, she reminded herself as she began to walk down the street, baby in arms, she needed to find somewhere to sleep.

* * *

><p>Thirty minutes later, she checked into a small hotel she found in Acorn Avenue. The clerk at the desk said that the nearest police station was an hour's walk away, and opened in the morning. Bones, hurrying up the stairs to her room and tucking the envelope in her pocket, took a lot of care not to wake the baby up – statistically, babies that slept more where more aware during the day and developed better sleeping patterns when they were older.<p>

In her room, she frowned. The baby was wet, and she didn't know what she could use as a makeshift diaper. She cast her eyes around her small room, and her eyes fell upon the sheets and on the scissors in the desk. Well, the baby needed a diaper. Booth would probably have frowned and told her at least a dozen why not to ...

Setting the baby in the bed, she unwrapped it carefully from the tangle of blue blankets, and bit back a scowl. It was only dressed in a diaper! And a soaked wet thin flannel one, at that. _Poor baby!_ She thought to herself. The child would catch a cold, which, not given the proper care, could rapidly evolve into pneumonia. And given the child's age – she guessed it was perhaps a little younger than a year and a half, at a guess and looking at its development – its immune system would not be able to fight off infection unless it had been given medication. And _good_ medication, at that.

Bones efficiently stripped the sheets from the bed, leaving the baby lying, fast asleep, in its wet diaper, on the desk. She carefully cut out a section of sheet, and put the baby on the bed. Half an hour later, the child had finally opened its eyes; Bones had discovered that 'it' was actually a 'he'; and that changing babies with a makeshift diaper made of hotel sheets was _hard._

The baby was awake, and he was cooing quietly at her. Bones picked him up, rocking him in her arms; he shivered, and began to wail. "Oh no. No, no, no." Bones bit her lip and gently jogged the baby up and down. Logically, she knew that she was supposed to try to calm the infant down, which should be simple and easy and a relatively stress-free task – so why was she feeling a strange, small knot inside her chest? "Don't cry, little baby boy. Don't cry."

The baby shivered, but he was quiet. Bones had an idea and promptly rolled her proverbial mental eyes at herself for not think of it before; _perhaps he's cold,_ she thought to herself. She carefully wrapped him in the blue blanket he'd been wrapped in. He cooed a little more before falling asleep, head resting against her chest.

Bones looked down at him, and gasped. He had a long, jagged cut all down the left side of his forehead; it was bleeding profusely, even though Brennan knew it should have clotted by now; he had not cut himself while she was holding him, and the unstable people who'd left him at Privet Drive hadn't hurt him, as far as she could see, which put injury time at least two hours ago. She tore out another section of sheet, and wiped down the cut. Then she set the baby down on the bed.

She sat down next to him, blinking in surprise when something crinkled in her pocket. Of course, she thought, fishing the envelope out of her pocket. The letter left with the boy.

It was made of a thick paper. _Parchment_, her brain supplied. By the feel of it, it was apparently made of calf's skin. Bones frowned: the letter inside felt quite thick – at least three calves had to have been killed for the envelope alone, not to mention the letter inside. That was illegal nowadays; why couldn't the sender of the letter have used paper?

She slid a finger under the flap, opening it easily. The letter, a double-sided page made of _more_ killed calves' skin. She lifted to paper to her nose and sniffed. _Authentic,_ her brain reaffirmed. Her lips pursed as she read the letter.

The letter was written in emerald green ink, in thin, slanted handwriting, and in perfect lines even though the parchment had no pre-printed lines. Brennan read the letter once. And then twice. She blinked, and, just to make sure, read it three times.

"Well," she addressed the sleeping baby on the bed, even though he couldn't hear her. "It appears as though aside from those people at Number Four, you're all alone in the world." She paused. "Harry Potter." She frowned, and stood up, heading for the bathroom.

"Personally, I've never been fond of pet names. Harry. Too childish for my taste, don't you think? Harold? No, I don't find it a nice name, either." She cocked her head to a side, coming back out of the bathroom. By now, the baby was awake. "Harlan?" she suggested. The baby's face scrunched up. "I don't like it either," she told him. She sat down on the bed next to him.

"Harper?" The baby whined. "It sounds too much like Parker. Booth's son," she added. "Harvey? No, sounds like a university. Or perhaps a type of beer," she mused.

"Harrison?" The baby made a funny, warbling, almost mocking sort of sound. "No? It's a nice name, no need to make fun of it. How about... Hadriel? Hadriel, maybe?" The baby made a soft cooing noise, sounding almost pleased. "Do you like that name? Hadriel?" The baby blinked up at her, a little grin playing around his lips. "Hadriel? Alright, then Hadriel it is." The newly-named Hadriel cooed again.

Bones sighed again, set Hadriel on the desk chair: it was padded, and warm. She didn't want to him to sleep in the same bed; just in case she moved during the night – although she rarely did, it was a precaution – and hurt him. She redressed the bed, pointedly ignoring the large diaper-shaped hole she'd snipped into the sheets. With that, she closed her eyes and slept.

* * *

><p>Hello everyone :)<p>

This is my new account, FreakFreak :) I'm sorry I had to switch accounts, but FFN was being stupid ;P

You now the drill, darlings - review, please! (Actually you might want to wait until next chapter)


	2. Incongruous

A baby was whimpering.

Brennan opened her eyes, slowly and blearily, and rolled off the bed. She was stumbling across the room and had Hadriel rocking gently in her arms before she was fully awake.

Hadriel was wailing freely now. Tears streamed down his cheeks and his mouth was wide open, and he howled. His eyes were red, squinty, and the large, ugly, bleeding jagged cut on his forehead was inflamed and bleeding freely.

She sat down heavily on the bed again, rocking him in her arms. According to the clock on the hotel wall, it was seven AM. The clerk had said that the police station would open at eight, and that it would take an hour to get there, walking. Sighing, Bones changed the infant's diaper, making a new one out of the hotel sheets and nail scissors (Angela had insisted she carry them on her person At All Times) and throwing the old one into a wastepaper basket. She cut some more of the sheet away, and wrapped Hadriel safely inside. Then, to make sure he was warm, she wrapped him into the blanket he'd been in yesterday.

"That should make sure you don't contract any viruses or bacteria, hmm?" She told the boy as she pulled the remains of the sheet over the bed and straightened her rumpled clothes. She pocketed her wallet and her battery-dead cell phone, and gently picked up the quiet child. He didn't make any noise; he looked around, wide emerald green eyes bright and alive with curiosity. Bones had never seen eyes that green; it was probably a reinforced trait, she mused, a family thing.

She took the envelope, the letter still inside, and tucked them into her coat. She pulled the coat on and picked up the infant into her arms. He blinked at her. "Muh, muh, muh," he gibbered. With a surprisingly fast hand, he reached up to tug her hair. "Mama?"

Bones' breath hitched.

Her stomach contracted, a thick, heavy lump rising uncomfortably from her stomach, settling in her throat.

"No, Hadriel," Bones murmured. "I'm not your mama. I'm...I'm Temperance."

The boy's button-nose scrunched up. "Dem-er-uns?"

"No, Hadriel, _Temperance."_

"Em-er-unce?"

"_Temperance,_ Hadriel."

The little child's bottom lip began to quiver. Bones saw the warning signs of two big green eyes beginning to tear up.

"Oh, no, no, Hadriel, don't cry – um, well, my friends all call me Bones, despite the fact that I've persistently informed them that continuing to do so will lead to dire consequences. It's a rather irritating nickname, I find. _Bones."_

"Bo'es?" This one was easier to sound out, and his brilliant green eyes peered up at her.

"Yes. Bones." She picked the key up from the desk, picking the small child in her arms as Hadriel quietly chanted away to himself, "Bo'es, Bo'es, Bo'es." Bones walked out of the room and locked the door behind her. The cheap hotel didn't have an elevator; she had to climb down two flights of stairs to reach the first floor. By the looks of things, she was the only guest; a different clerk sat at the desk, a young woman with more metal punched in her face than a grenade victim this time, chewing gum loudly and flicking through a magazine.

After Brennan paid for the night, she asked the girl if she would call a cab. The girl shrugged and in a nasal voice replied that sure, she would.

"And do you know where I would find a good baby store?" asked Bones uncertainly.

The girl glanced at the baby, who was staring right at her with an expression of interest on his face, and said, "Loads in London, I fink. Dunno 'bout spes'fic d'rections, though."

Bones opened her mouth to reply – just as a taxi rolled up outside. Nodding goodbye to the girl, who was already back to reading her magazine, Bones held Hadriel closer to her chest, and strode through the – apparently broken – revolving doors.

"Where'll it be, den, luv?" asked the cabbie with a thick London accent.

"Ah...London. Somewhere in the centre. I'm looking for a baby store...?"

The cabbie looked at her, his eyes flicking down to Hadriel in her arms. His eyes flicked back up again, taking in her expensive handbag, her neat haircut, her well-applied and subtle make-up, the faint American drawl, the expensive (although slightly rumpled) clothes. "Take you to 'yde Park, den, miss?"

"Yes," said Brennan, relieved. "Hyde Park, please."

* * *

><p>The streets were...huge. Huge and loud and bustling, filled with honking cars, yelling pedestrians, motorists weaving in and out of traffic, double-decker bright red buses moving forward slowly, ploughing through the street like an elephants through gazelles.<p>

Bones walked through it all, feeling like the only calm person in the entire street – all around her, people were barking loudly into mobile phones, chatting away to people next to them, complaining loudly about one thing or another.

Hadriel looked around, twisting his head so far that Bones was strongly reminded of a movie she'd seen when she was young, a movie about devils possessing young girls. Complete nonsense, of course – the boy she'd gone to the cinema with had expected her to tremble and shiver and seek comfort from him: in the end, he was the one that walked out of the cinema pale-faced and shaking.

Bones checked the rudimentary map the cabbie had drawn for her on a paper napkin, and ducked into a large, substantially quieter side street. She squinted up at the obscured street name, hidden by a large tree, attached to plaque on a nearby wall. "Clarendon Place," she read aloud; looking up and down the street, she could see it was filled mostly with children's book stores and clothes shops.

"Alright, Hadriel, this looks like the place we're looking for," she murmured. Her arms were getting heavy – the baby was barely that, and more of a toddler. She'd have to let him walk for a while later on, to ensure his development. If she didn't let him be active he would statistically be more likely to lead a sedentary, unhealthy life later on.

Hadriel didn't seem to mind about his carer's plight; his eyes were riveted on a street performer further down the pavement. The man wore a top hat and a long purple cloak, complete with silver fastenings. He caught Bones staring and winked at her, raising a hand to elaborately flourish a black plastic wand at her. Immediately, a large bunch of flowers popped into his hand, replacing the wand; all around him, small children and parents 'ooh'ed.

"Wizz-uhd!" Hadriel cried.

Bones hurried past, her distaste for anything based upon superstition and human stupidity – really, to be so easily fooled by a bunch of collapsible roses? – worming its way to the surface, her face already twisting into a moue of dislike.

Further down Clarendon Place, she saw a large, airy shop with a bright sign in the window proclaiming children's and infant's supplies, all 60% off for closing. Inside, she bought enough toddler's clothes to last her a week – or at least until she dropped him off at the nearest police station.

Bones caught another cab back to her hotel; she had never been so grateful for pastel sheets and walls, with good room service and several rooms instead of the single, tiny room and grungy little bathroom she'd had to suffer through at the little hotel back at Acorn Avenue. She rang for room service and was rewarded ten minutes later with a knock at the door.

Feeding Hadriel was a trial. He didn't want the baby formula she'd bought at the store, insisting to eat "gwown-u' foo'" until Bones finally gave in and gave him her plate of French onion soup (she'd never cared for cheese on soup anyway). Then came the problem of the spoon. Apparently Hadriel found it extremely insulting to be fed – he grappled the spoon from her and insisted on feeding himself, which resulted in about a third of the bowl of soup on the floor, a third over Bones' clothes, about a third all over himself and only a very minimal amount inside Hadriel himself.

Hadriel didn't seem to mind at all. "Yum yum!" He cried gleefully, banging the spoon against the expensive china plate.

After the soup-and-spoon dilemma came dessert. Bones had ordered up some fruit for dessert, as she usually did – but Hadriel did _not_ like the fruit. Bones, however, wasn't about to give in on this one – so Hadriel was almost forcefully fed a banana. He was wriggling and twisting so much that Bones only just managed to feed him about half of it – the rest ended up, almost predictably, in his hair.

By this time, Hadriel was grumpy and annoyed. He also needed a bath and a nappy-change.

By this time, Bones was grumpy, annoyed, and hungry, because she hadn't eaten during the feeding-Hadriel-trails. She needed food and possibly a nap.

Thankfully, bathing him was relatively simple. He sat still while she carefully washed him up, mindful of not scrubbing too hard – Bones could remember what it was like to be scrubbed to rawness when she was a little girl, and she hadn't liked it at all. He also sat quietly while she carefully washed his hair, eyes screwed up tight when Bones told him to.

"Alright, Hadriel, I think you're all nice and un-grubby now," Bones informed him as he sat in the bottom of the bathtub, wet and clean. He yawned at her as she lifted him out of the tub, showing several small milk teeth, and stood still as she towelled him dry. She dressed him in the new clothes and settled him down on her bed for a nap.

In two minutes, Hadriel was fast asleep.

Bones took the time to have her own lunch, call the bellboy back to take the tray, have her own shower, and take out her laptop.

She needed to find out where the nearest police station was. As much as she liked the little boy, she couldn't keep him.


End file.
